


to say we're in love is dangerous (but I'm so glad we're acquainted)

by SeventhStrife



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Prototype (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, BAMF Desmond, Dark Past, Desmond Miles Lives, Dom/sub Undertones, Hook-Up, Hurt/Comfort, Late Night Conversations, Loneliness, M/M, One Night Stands, Pre-Prototype 2, Rating May Change, Secret Identity, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, more tags to come, post-ACIII, story title is waaaaaay too long
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2018-12-12 03:19:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11728401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeventhStrife/pseuds/SeventhStrife
Summary: Alex, disgusted with humanity, finds a glimmer of hope in the form of a kind, mysterious bartender. Salvation hangs in the balance, but one fateful conversation threatens to turn the tide.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The year is 2017. I'm writing ProtoCreed. I've lost control of my life. Is this the brave push of a fearless writer? Or a cry for help?
> 
> Maybe both.
> 
> Also, I _know_ , how original, they meet in a bar, Desmond's the bartender, blah blah blah--I'm not creative. But it's legitimately the only work experience he has outside of being an Assassin, and he has to fall back on something.

Alex may be staring at the bottom of a glass, but he’s only too aware of his surroundings.

Over in the corner? Typical couple, young, pressed tight and eager to show each other off. It would be sweet, but Alex has seen the glances the man sends when his woman looks away, returned by a girl a few tables down who’s showing twice as much skin.

Then there’s the group in the booth a few feet away, laughing uproariously and adding another half-dozen beers to their tabs. Alex has come to recognize their ilk, can see the simmering rage brought to the surface by the alcohol. He gives them twenty more minutes before they’re ripping each other apart, eager for a fight.

Can’t forget the hooded man sitting conspicuously in the only table without a light hanging directly overhead. He twitches nervously and every now and again, someone sits in front of him. Never for long, just enough for a phrase to pass between their lips, then the guest shuffles away, a small baggy full of white powder in their pockets.

Alex is always disgusted by such displays of depravity, but he finds himself wishing he was surprised. Not that such innocence would have suited him in the past.

But still. There are times when it physically _pains_ him to see how consistent humanity can be with their vices, with their selfishness and greed. No matter the city, the state, the continent--humans at their core just prove time and time again they are no different, that they are incapable of change.

It’s as if there’s some... _cancer_ within their very psyches, their souls, something so deep-seated and corrupt no digging could ever remove the ichor of its taint.

Alex feels a spike of black humor at the thought; and _he’s_ supposed to be the virus.

No sooner has Alex pushed aside his empty glass than another slides across the counter to him, coming to a perfect stop right by his hand. He glances across to the bartender and nods in thanks.

That’s been perhaps the one saving grace since his self-appointed pilgrimage; aside from asking if he wanted to open a tab, the bartender has made himself scarce, but ever attentive to Alex’s needs. As soon as his drink is drained, he’s supplied another, no fuss, no questions.

He doesn’t even know why he’s bothering with it, though. It’s not as if he can _actually_ get drunk. The burn’s not so bad, though. And if there’s one place to observe humanity, stripped of its masks and deceit, it’s in their places of indulgence.

“You’re not human, right?”

Alex’s heart trips in his chest and for the first time in a long, long time, he feels fear.

He goes stone-still, fingers tight around his fresh glass. Willing himself not to panic and to contain the virus within his skin, he raises his head.

The bartender’s face is free of righteous anger, of the fear and hatred that anyone who knows the Blacklight’s face regards him with. Instead, there’s a wryness. Mirth, even.

Alex hides his uncertainty behind a swallow of amber.

“What makes you say that?”

The bartender jerks a thumb at his glass.

“That’s your tenth, you know that right? I usually don’t serve past five, but you were handling them so well I got curious.” He leans close, close enough that Alex can see the tiny flecks of gray in his brown eyes, gain a whole new appreciation for the scar bisecting the corner of his mouth.

His dark eyebrows furrow as he searches Alex’s face.

“Damn. You don’t even look a little drunk. Yep. Definitely not human. Or--wait. Russian?”

Alex makes an amused sound, relaxing. He won’t have to make a hasty, possibly messy exit.

“Nope. Born--here, actually.”

“Oh, yeah? Funny enough, that’s probably the weirdest thing about you. I think we get more tourists than natives here.”

Alex can believe that. It isn't far from one of the more popular shopping strips in New York, and it has that--elitism. Line down the street, bouncers flanking the doors, guy with a list manning the velvet rope; there was no way Alex would have been let in under normal circumstances, which is why he snuck in in the first place.

Someone a few seats away flags down the bartender and with a parting smile, he leaves. Alex thinks that’s the end of that, eyes trailing the man as he expertly, and with more than a little finesse, mixes a half-dozen drinks for a group of women who laugh and cheer as he goes.

The man is handsome by human standards. Toned, bronzed skin--maybe Italian? Arresting smile and cropped, roguishly styled dark hair. And a decent conversationalist, if he can coax more than three words from _Alex_ of all people. Definitely the man you wanted behind the bar to attract customers. He seems to fit in perfectly here. He's wearing a pair of black, well-worn gloves. Odd, since it's not exactly cold inside a packed club in New York on a Saturday night. But then again Alex is wearing two jackets, so who is he to judge?

It takes him only five minutes to finish the drinks, serve them with a winning smile, and coax a few generous tips from the girls. They drift away with winks and promises to return, and then, to Alex’s surprise, he hears him call out to another employee that he’s taking break and watches as he grabs a glass, a tall bottle of something brown, and drags a black stool over to sit opposite Alex.

He gets himself settled without a word, scooting his seat closer so he can brace his arms on the bar, pours himself a decent portion, and chugs it in three seconds.

“Ahhh,” the bartender sighs with satisfaction, eyes closed and smiling. He opens those dark eyes and leans close, expression open and curious as he reaches for the bottle.

“So, what’s wrong?” he asks calmly, refilling Alex’s glass.

It’s not often that Alex is caught completely off guard, but in this moment, there’s nothing for it. They’d barely had small talk, and definitely nothing that should have invited this sort of...reaching out? Camaraderie?

Alex wants to recoil from the sheer novelty of it. People just don’t act this way around him. The hood and the voice are usually enough to deter most, and anyone else just knows not to get too close.

_What is this?_

Deciding he’ll humor the human until he decides if he likes him, Alex peers back curiously.

“Something’s wrong?”

The bartender nods sagely. “Doing what I do, you learn to recognize the signs. And you, my friend?” He shakes his head, adopting a pitying, sad expression. “You’ve gone through some shit. Tragic, I can tell.”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” Alex mutters with his usual black humor. He takes the drink, appreciates the burn sliding down his throat.

“I’m never wrong, which is why I’m here to help. As a bartender, my job skills also include confessional and advisor.” He gestures benevolently. “Please, my son, tell me your woes,” he requests, his voice suddenly much more formal and stuffy.

This guy clearly thinks he’s a riot, and Alex hides his smirk behind another sip.

“My problems aren’t the type some lip-service are gonna fix.”

“Hmm,” the bartender contemplates, pursing his lips as he considers Alex’s words. He stares a moment, eyes narrowed, before saying, “Nah,” and waving his hands dismissively.

“That’s actually a bunch of bullshit,” he says matter of factly. “As perhaps the poster-boy for keeping shit bottled up too long because I thought I could deal with it myself, let me just say that talking helps. Even if it’s just to make you feel a little less alone for a while.”

Alex looks up sharply, curses himself the next second for giving himself away so obviously.

It’s just... _damn_ if that doesn't hit a little too close to home. If there’s anything Alex has learned, it’s that he is achingly, frustratingly alone. Sure, he has Dana but...not really. He has memories, impressions, but...the man she called brother...he’s dead, killed himself in Penn station and took more than a few people with him, the selfish fucking bastard.

Alex is just this... _thing._ This thing that hungers and devours and destroys. This thing that makes people hate him, hunt him, hurt him.

This thing that’s becoming less human with every day that passes.

The bartender, however, is so very human. Attractive, compassionate, completely naive to the wolf in his midst.

At this, Alex is struck with a thought. A thought that only proves how much of a monster he is, a thought that refuses to be ignored and dangles temptingly, insidiously before him.

_I want to see him break._

Suddenly, more than anything, Alex wants to see him turn out like everyone else he’s seen. He wants to be disappointed, he wants to see this open, kind man reveal his true colors.

No, he _needs_ it. Because this sudden empathy, this sweet lie that anyone, for even a minute, could see him and want to help, would even _understand_ \--he needs to kill this hope before it has time to kill _him._

So Alex licks his lips and matches the bartender’s pose, elbows braced on the cool surface, and leans forward.

Softly, he says, “You don’t know shit about me. You need to shut the fuck up about shit you don't understand, because it’s going to get that pretty face of yours smashed in.”

Now comes the vitriol. The open, kind features will twist into something hurt and angry, and he’ll storm off, maybe even throw a drink or a punch.

To his unending confusion, the man does none of these things.

The bartender lets out a bark of laughter, completely unlike what Alex had caught him doing with his customers. It’s rough and unattractive, and clearly self-satisfied, but Alex knows instantly that it’s real.

“Yeah, no, that’s fair,” he says with a genial shrug, that damn stubborn smile still tugging on his lips. He tops off both their glasses, then looks at Alex imploringly. “Help me understand then. Seriously, I want to know.”

Alex moves straight from confused to angry. What game is this?

“Why? What does it matter? You don’t know me.”

“Weeeeeeeeeeell,” the bartender is watching Alex, something startlingly sober in his eyes despite his easy tone. “Let’s just say, I know what it’s like to feel alone with your thoughts when none of those thoughts are good. It’s a real shitty place to be in, and I’d like to help you out of it, if I can.”

Is this guy real? Alex has to resist the urge to look over his shoulder for a hidden camera or a strike team cutting their way towards him through the crowd. But the seconds drag on and he’s forced to admit that this is reality, and miracle of miracles, this guy is sincere.

Unsettled, Alex has to look away.

“You’re weird.”

Another laugh, softer but just as satisfied.

“You have no idea.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It gets better, I promise.
> 
> But seriously, I have no idea how I got here, writing this. Except, I love Desmond Miles with all my heart, and I've itched to write him my way for years. Plus, (most of) the people he's shipped with in canon I don't like/think they deserve him. Thank you for reading! Please review if you liked this!
> 
> Title from [Acquainted](https://soundcloud.com/theweeknd/acquainted-1).


	2. Chapter 2

 

It’s not the talking that has Desmond quietly panicking, or the excessive eye contact. It’s not even that they’ve been at it for hours now, snatching time together when customers aren’t flagging him down.

Desmond may be roughing it on his own, but he isn’t a hermit. His job demands a certain openness and welcome, and he’s no stranger to small talk. There used to be a time he just _couldn’t_ shut up but that’s a person long gone, someone Desmond recalls wistfully some nights with a shake of his head.

So, no, the lengthy conversation--something he typically doesn’t indulge in--isn’t the odd thing that’s making him squirm.

It’s how _easy_ it is. The life of an Assassin comes with an ability to blend in, and Desmond can make anyone believe he is who he says he is, no matter how elaborate the lie.

But here and now? Talking to this stranger? His replies aren’t the responses of Adam the bartender, but of Desmond, the exile. The man quietly trying to eek out a meager living, unbothered by anything more pressing than his next shift, blissfully alone.

Desmond’s flirted a lot, had some decent conversations with a few patrons, but none have coaxed him out like this. Something about this man--alone, hooded, guardedly watching the area like a thing hunted--calls out to him. Maybe it's because he reminds him a little of himself when he first came to New York; desperate to escape but awkward, still unsure how to move and act like those around him, like someone who hadn’t spent most of their lives off the grid in Bumfuck, Nowhere in fucking _South Dakota._

Right now the guy’s toned down the hostility just a notch to make room for the most confused expression Desmond’s ever seen. And that’s coming from someone who’s dealt with the Animus and all the fun little tidbits that come with it.

_(like pain and loss and searing light and figures crafted like Gods who stare straight through your skin to your smallest atoms and hold out their hands and take and take and **TAKE-)**_

Desmond honestly should just back off; the guy’s got crazy murder eyes and he keeps hunching his shoulders and arching his back, seconds away from spitting and hissing at him like a cornered cat.

But it only amuses Desmond and draws him further in. What can he say? After what he’s been through, he’s developed a penchant for diving headfirst into what most people would call A Bad Idea.

“What’s your name, anyway?”

He's silent a moment, still staring at Desmond warily as if the second he blinks, he’ll get a knife to the back.

“...It’s Alex.” His chin jerks up just a touch, jaw set, and blue eyes cold as ice narrow at him. “You?”

“Adam.” The sting of guilt surprises him, apprehension right on it’s heels.

_Quit being an idiot._ He’s barely known this guy a few _hours_ and he’s feeling bad for not divulging his life story? Surprisingly, Desmond actually cares about this guy--Alex--and caring is stupid. Caring makes you sloppy, which makes you caught, which makes you dead. And as much as he wants to just tell him his true name, who knows who Alex knows? Who he works with, who his neighbors are? He might not be on either side, but these days everyone knows someone who works for Abstergo and the wrong comment coupled with his name, even a vague description, could drop the wrong kind of attention over his head.

And then he’d be right back where he started, on the run and hunted day in and day out, unable to trust anyone and avoiding any building more high-tech than a gas station.

Continuing this is probably a mistake, but Desmond can’t shake his earlier glimpse of Alex from his mind, at the bottom of his seventh glass, eyes dark with something best left untouched, lips pursed tight.

It’s a look Desmond’s seen before, both on himself and on those before he killed them.

It’s the look of someone closing off their higher brain functions, the ones that made them feel and cry and accept reality. It was a single-minded focus, one that led to drastic decisions that you couldn’t take back later.

It was the look of someone about to kill.

Whether the intent is aimed at himself or someone else, Desmond isn’t really sure, and he doesn’t care. True, Desmond doesn’t know anything about Alex. He could be a good man, or not. He could be a murderer, and well, that would just set him on more even ground with Desmond, wouldn’t it?

Good or bad, tonight Alex is simply a man alone at a bar, looking for answers in all the wrong places. And Desmond? Desmond’s just the empathetic fool who would always try to do the right thing, even when it probably wasn’t good for him.

He’s embarrassingly consistent when it comes to this sort of thing.

“Look.” He gestures slightly with his glass in the space between them. “You don’t have to tell me your life story. Just give me a rough outline of the problem.” Desmond grins. “Otherwise, I’m just going to keep bothering you. And I can be very, very persistent.”

A rough sigh and Desmond’s on the receiving end of a half-serious glare. “I’m starting to see that.” Alex glances to the side, to the door. “I could just leave,” he threatens, eyes back on Desmond to see his reaction.

Desmond shrugs genially. “You could. But you won’t.”

There go the tense shoulders. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because if I really was bothering you so much, you would have already left. I think you _want_ someone to talk to, you just haven’t admitted it to yourself.”

Alex looks away, mouth thin, and stares into his glass. He swirls the contents lazily, looking like he’s swallowed a lemon. Desmond hides his amused smile behind another drink.

In the quiet that ensues, the sounds of the club drift around them. Clinking glasses, muffled laughter, an ocean of people dancing and yelling and cheering, their place at the bar the only bubble of sobriety and calm.

A small eternity later, Alex opens his mouth, every word slow and reluctant, eyes carefully averted.

"Have you ever done something...unforgivable?"

Against his will, flashes of _Lucy/Kadar/Using the Apple on all those **people** /Haytham bleeding **out**_ assault him without mercy or pause. Desmond can feel something strained appearing on his face, something he can't force behind a mask of indifference. He takes another drink.

"Yeah."

Alex's cold eyes look just like his, now that he's really looking. They're haunted. He assesses Desmond for a long moment, lips pressed thin. He's clearly trying to decide if Desmond's full of shit. He wishes he was.

Alex looks down, clenches his hand into a fist on the sleek countertop. "How do you...move on? How do you get through another day, with that weighing on you?"

Desmond releases a quiet, long breath between the 'o' of his lips because he asked after all and this guy isn't pulling any punches.

And it's a damned good question. Why? Some days, Desmond doesn't even know. He'll lie in bed, staring up at nothing, and wonder what's the point? Fighting or not, good people die, are used, are discarded like garbage in a ditch while the Templars just get stronger.

But no matter what, no matter how he'd contemplated a sheer drop or a quick flick of his blade, he still rises, still ducks when someone shoots, still fights when he's attacked, because he just can't. Some part of him, a reflex, an instinct, maybe just good old self-preservation, keeps him from giving up.

"I remember that there's good in the world, things that make all the bad stuff worth it."

Immediately, Alex's frown deepens. He's glaring again.

"You're wrong. There's nothing good in this world. It's a fucking shithole."

"No." Desmond is firm, completely unyielding in this. "I used to think the same thing, okay? Screw the world, I'm just going to watch out for me. But that's just something I told myself to justify some really selfish choices I'd made. Despite everything, there are good people out there, doing their best even though the world just wants to put them down, and I don't have any right to abandon my humanity when they keep fighting for what's right."

A split second later, Desmond wants to kick himself. Because there's giving advice, lending an ear, and getting on your soapbox and straying way too close to revealing your identity.

And he has to worry if it's too late anyway, because the way Alex is looking at him right now, it looks like he's having a revelation. His eyes, narrowed and suspicious all night, have finally widened. His lips have gone a bit slack, and he's staring at Desmond with obvious, honest shock.

So he probably just made an idiot of himself, but Desmond can't help himself. He's tired of people passively thinking the worst of others without taking the time to really see the bigger picture. Mostly because he used to be one of those people. Just...he lost the luxury of living his life that way when he lived through Altair's memories. There is true, enduring, amazing good out there, and he knows because he's _seen_ it. Thousands of years of it, in all shapes and forms, and denying it would be akin to spitting in the face of all that work, all the blood and sweat and tears of generations of people who selflessly work for the betterment of all they know.

And Desmond won't stand for it.

"...I see."

Desmond waits, but Alex doesn't say anymore. He looks away, staring into his glass, and Desmond can't tell where his mood is. He's not storming off, so Desmond probably didn't say the wrong thing, but he's not saying anything either, which isn't exactly putting him at ease.

Desmond feels a tap on his shoulder and there's one of his co-workers, Robbie, jerking his head. Desmond sighs. Break's over.

"Well, that's my cue." He rises from his stool, swiping his glass and bottle. Alex watches him, then inclines his head.

"Thanks. For the talk."

Desmond feels a little relief at that. Alex doesn't seem the type to placate him, so he must genuinely mean it.

"No problem," he shrugs. "Sorry I rambled there for a minute, but I think you got the idea."

Desmond swings the stool beneath the counter and stows the bottle away. He spots a spill a few feet down and tosses his wet-rag over his shoulder. He glances back at Alex to find those blue eyes on him, unreadable. Desmond smiles.

"I better not turn around and find you gone before you pay your tab," he says mock-warningly.

Alex's lips twitch, only the slightest up turning, but Desmond does a mental fist-pump.

"You think so little of me."

"Just making sure I still have a job at the end of my shift. This whole thing was probably just an elaborate con, but if you try to dash, I _will_ catch you."

Alex looks away, but Desmond can see his smile is just a bit wider.

"No," he says. "I think I'll stay a bit longer."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Desmond Miles so much.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely comments! They make it so easy for me to keep updating.

Alex moves away from the bar to a table nested against the wall where he still has a good view of it. Because wanted or not, sitting at the bar for hours on end staring is a good way to get the cops called on him. Before it was fine because the only thing that held his interest was his glass. Now it's a person, which isn't nearly as socially acceptable.

But what can he say? Adam...he's caught his interest. Truth be told, he's _fascinating._ During his travels, Alex has met his fair share of bible thumpers and religious clergy, preaching about faith and good and the powers that be, but they've all been corrupt and stupid, using it to justify evil deeds.

But with Adam...he simply can't dismiss the man out of hand despite knowing better. He'd been so _passionate,_ completely discarding his playful, flirty persona during his little speech. His eyes had compelled Alex to believe him and he'd been sorely tempted. And what he'd said.

_'I don't have any right to abandon my humanity when they keep fighting for what's right.'_

It was like he _knew._ Alex questioned his own humanity daily, hell, _hourly._ Yet this intriguing, arresting concept--that humanity is rooted in your compassion for others rather than your DNA--won't leave him now that he's been exposed to it.

Could it really be so simple? This thing that Alex had struggled with almost since his birth in that Gentek lab, could it be that he'd already achieved a humanity greater than Mercer's the moment he empathized with others? That empathy had gotten him stabbed in the back more than once, but...instead of being bitter, should he instead be celebrating his ability to feel it at all?

Alex's head is spinning, and every time his thoughts descend into this confusing, jumbled tangle, he looks at Adam. He watches him smile and wink and impress with his little tricks, and feels himself grow a little calmer.

He by no means feels as if his months of anger and disgust are over, but for the first time in a long time he's...hopeful.

Maybe, just _maybe_...humanity isn't a lost cause, after all.

* * *

 

Two hours go by, and then Adam disappears through a door behind the back of the bar. The time shows that it's nearly three a.m. and Alex realizes with a start that Adam's shift must be over.

He feels...disappointed. He hadn't consciously thought about talking to Adam again, but now that the opportunity is gone, he can't help but feel sorely cheated. It also hinders him; how is he supposed to follow Adam and spy on him if he's lost him already? Saying pretty words are one thing, but Alex knows better than to take them at face value; odds are, Adam is just as depraved and rotten as anyone else he's ever met.

Alex intends to find out exactly how.

He rises from his table, but moments later Adam bursts back out the swinging door, tugging up the zipper of his jacket. His sleeves are rolled up, enough to reveal the tattoo on his upper arm, and he spins a few keys on a ring as he calls out a goodbye to his coworkers with a raised hand and a smile.

Alex sits back down, tracking him with his eyes, and resolves to let him get out the door before he follows.

Then, inexplicably, Adam turns and his eyes land right on Alex.

Alex goes completely still, his fist clenching unseen beneath the table. He doesn't look away as Adam makes his way over, face serious.

Alex honestly has no idea what's about to happen. He didn't think he'd even been _noticed_ when he slipped away and tossed a few bills on the counter. Is Adam going to yell at him for staring? Is he going to kick him out of the bar? Demand a tip? There's something about the look in his eyes, the dead-serious, cautious stare that makes Alex go on the defensive long before Adam makes it to his little table in the dark corner.

Adam stops before him, one hand tucked into his pocket while the other swings his keys around his pointer finger in a deliberately nonchalant motion. His eyes are anything but.

They stare at one another, the silence charged while Adam just looks at him with that infuriatingly mild expression. Alex wonders, _Is this it? Is this the moment he reveals himself to me?_

"I'm going to ask you something," Adam starts, and Alex is listening to his every word with laser focus, studying his face like one might a bomb about to go off. "And you're going to answer honestly." Alex's eyes narrow. Adam mirrors him. "Were you about to follow me?"

A loaded silence follows. Finally, Alex says, "Yes."

It's subtle, but Alex can see the tension his honest answer causes. "Why?"

Alex glances away, unable to give Adam nothing but the truth, but fully aware of how inadequate it will sound.

"Because I don't think you're real. And I want to know the truth."

Adam understands immediately, however. "You think I was bullshitting you earlier."

Alex just nods.

"...And that's it? You just wanted to make sure I'm not a secret pimp or something?"

Alex nods again, still uneasy. He can't predict this man, and he doesn't know how this conversation is going to play out.

Adam contemplates him for a moment, probably wondering if he should call the cops, and then shrugs. His earlier, easy smile makes yet another appearance tonight.

"Okay," he says simply. "Then follow me."

Then he turns around and walks away, easy as can be. After a startled pause, Alex follows.

 _He's_ _crazy._ Bewildered, it's the only thing Alex can think.

Outside, Adam veers off to the street where a motorcycle is parked by a meter. He raises a brow when Adam swings his leg over the side and starts it up. He unhooks his sleek black helmet from where it's chained to the bike and holds it out to Alex.

Alex just stares at it. Adam smiles.

"Don't tell me you're scared."

Alex gives him a flat look but reluctantly takes the helmet. His eyes flick over the bike, then Adam.

"You only have one," he points out.

"Well, yeah. I only have one head."

"So you should wear it."

"It's fine. Now quit stalling, you big baby." For added measure, he revs the throttle, grinning.

Alex rolls his eyes but acquiesces. He slips the helmet on and slides in behind Adam. He does feel a little guilty to be wearing it; if they get into an accident, deadly or not, Alex will be fine. _He's_ not the fragile, breakable human.

"Here we go," Adam warns, and then he takes off.

Alex's eyes widen, and he grips Adam's shoulder's reflexively. Adam's not exactly a _reckless_ driver, but he clearly likes to go fast. Still, the experience is almost enjoyable. Alex's mode of transport is easier, faster, but this is the first time he's seen the appeal of shackling himself to a hunk of metal for travel.

It's not a long drive. Not even ten minutes pass before Adam is turning off into a paved driveway that leads into a covered garage. Above them is an apartment complex, just a few stories tall. Brick and aging, completely removed from the most intense hustle and bustle of the busier streets. Graffiti lines more than a few walls, and there's a trash can overturned a few feet down. Alex spots movement in the dark and sees a homeless man slumped underneath a stoop before they're in the garage and his line of sight is broken.

He's surprised, to be honest. Working where he was, even for a bartender Adam should be earning more than enough to live in a nicer neighborhood.

Adam pulls into a parking spot with a faded _306_ painted on it. He kills the engine and waits until Alex is standing to the side to slide off himself. He holds out his hand and Alex tosses him the helmet so he can chain it back.

"This way," Adam says with a wave, leading him to the elevator.

The ride up is silent, but it lacks the discomfort of earlier. Or, perhaps it is uncomfortable but Alex doesn't notice. He's too curious. Seeing the way a person lives, it can tell you a lot about them.

Take Dana for instance. Her apartment is essentially one giant room, the only real separation being for the bathroom. One wall is just paper: Articles, photos, portraits of people she's investigating. Books are piled haphazardly on every surface and there's always at least five cups of half-empty, frigid coffee sprinkled throughout. Her TV has accumulated a worrying amount of dust, because somewhere in the mess, is her remote. She's just never bothered to really search and uses her computer to watch the news.

Then, there's Alex's. He doesn't use it often but retreats there on days when his mood is black or his skin too tight or his brain too full with the memories of dead men. There's a blanket, that Dana gave him. And a window with a small balcony. And that's it. He's a virus, so he doesn't need a comfortable place to rest, or food, or entertainment. He just goes there to close his eyes and be alone, legs swinging idly out the window.

He doesn't spend a lot of time there.

Adam unlocks his door wide and gestures Alex in with a dramatic flourish. "Please, sir."

Alex ignores him and glides in. He raises a brow.

It's plain. Dana's apartment is only open concept, so there's still walls and dividers, not to mention carpet in parts of her home. Here, it really _is_ one big room. There's a door on the far right wall and he supposes it leads to a bathroom. The whole thing is warped hardwood, with a fridge against the wall. Across the room, there's a mattress, fitted with a sheet and a blanket crumpled at the end. There's no frame, just a mattress on the ground. A TV rests on a crate tucked into a corner facing out so that you can get a good angle on it from anywhere in the room, and a small couch in front of it so old Alex can smell the dust on it from the doorway. He has no doubt it came with the apartment.

"So, what's the verdict?"

Alex slides his gaze over to where Adam is tossing his keys onto the floor and shrugging out of his jacket.

He's been cheated, he thinks. There's barely enough personality in here to fit a teaspoon, let alone make up a profile for someone. He resists the urge to sigh impatiently.

"Looks like you don't plan to stay."

Adam smiles without looking at him. "Is it obvious?"

"How long have you been here?"

"Mm. Two months? Three?" Alex wouldn't have guessed more than a week, given how flat and impersonal the surroundings are. "It's time for me to move on, that's for sure."

Adam drifts to the couch and plops down on one end, going boneless. He rests his head on the back and shuts his eyes, the picture of relaxation.

"You sound like you move around often." Alex gingerly sits on the couch, focused completely on the man who blithely let the Blacklight Virus into his apartment. "Why?"

"Just like to travel."

"I don't believe you."

Adam laughs a quiet, low thing that's as tired as it is amused. He cracks open an eye. "Man, you're really serious about this. What does it matter?"

"It matters." More than anything. Adam looks at him properly, rolling his head to the side, considering.

"Well, I guess you're just going to have to trust me."

Alex's eyes narrow. "I'm not the trusting type."

He gets another chuckle. "Yeah, no shit. But it's all you're getting."

"Then you _do_ have something to hide."

Adam shrugs. "Who doesn't? Look, I promise, I'm not a murderer or a rapist or working for PETA, alright? I'm just a bartender." He gestures to himself. "What you see is what you get with me."

If one thing's been made clear tonight, it's that Adam isn't _just_ anything or anyone. If Alex can believe him...then he's probably the most amazing person on the planet. The thought makes the virus stir just beneath his skin, anxious.

Of course, there _is_ one surefire way of knowing Adam, inside an out without any secrets or barriers. Alex could do it so quickly he'd never even know what was happening. Then he wouldn't have to wait and be hurt. He wouldn't have a chance to let this build only to be left with bitter disappointment.

He _could_...but he knows he won't. Adam's almost too sincere to doubt. The way he meets Alex's eyes and answers his cynical nature with determined optimism is so refreshing and addicting. He's not ready to rob this world of it's only potential light in an ocean of filth and decay.

Alex leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands.

"Tell me this, then. Even for someone who travels a lot, you don't seem to own much."

Adam frowns. "Don't need much."

Caustically, Alex says, "Your apartment looks like a squatter lives here. And there's nothing personal. No pictures, no personal items. I don't think you even have a phone."

Adam's glaring off to the side now, a little less relaxed. "It's just stuff, Alex."

"What about keeping in touch with family? Friends? Isn't there someone worried about you?"

"Not really," Adam says flatly. He doesn't sound hurt or upset, just...empty. Alex hates it. It seems unfair that someone who could so righteously defend mankind could be this _alone._

Still, he pushes through. "You don't even seem to own much more than the clothes on your back."

"What's your _point,_ Alex?"

Alex isn't even sure, except--"It doesn't seem like a good way to live," he says quietly, worried despite himself.

Adam just gives him this calm, sad look. It's terrible. "Maybe not. But it's my way."

Alex doesn't _understand._ How can a normal, happy, charismatic human manage to be even more isolated than a living _virus?_

 _"Why?"_ he demands, voice rougher than usual.

"Because that's just how it has to be." Calmly. Accepting. Resigned. He's even gentle with it, like he's trying to spare Alex's feelings.

Who _does_ that?

"No, it doesn't. And I'm telling you to stop."

Adam's eyebrows raise. "You're _telling_ me?" Alex just glares and Adam gives a helpless laugh. He looks like Alex did earlier, like he's resisting the urge to search for cameras. "Um, why?"

"Because being alone isn't the answer to your problems. It doesn't make you stronger, or make life easier." Alex's mind goes back to Mercer without a single person to call his friend, nearly a stranger to his own damn sister, cornered and being so full of hate he decided that he wanted to die filled with enough spite to take innocent people with him. "It just...drives you crazy," he whispers.

He's not looking at Adam anymore. He's staring down at the floor, cursing Mercer to hell and back and feeling all those innocent lives on his back, weighing on him until Mercer can reach him and drag him down with him to rot.

His hands are tightly clenched fists in his lap, and he's so focused on the motion of opening and closing them just to rid himself of the urge to get up, to run, to _kill_ \--that Adam resting his gloved palm over one makes him go stock-still.

"Are you speaking from experience?"

After a moment, Alex shakes his head, finding his voice. "No. No, just some fucking bastard I used to know."

Adam squeezes. "I'm sorry." Alex shrugs, but it's not easy and nonchalant like Adam's. It's awkward and jerky, stilted because he's trying so hard to control his responses but he's too close to overflowing.

Beside him, Adam sighs.

"Okay. Enough serious shit, yeah? It's late, and probably unlike you, I have to work tomorrow."

Adam's hand releases his, and he moves to stand. Abruptly, Alex realizes he's been neatly sidetracked. They'd been talking about _Adam,_ but suddenly Alex is the one being consoled, about to be ushered out the door, never to see Adam the Wandering Bartender again.

Faster than a blink, Alex rises and cuts Adam off, in front of him faster than his eyes can possibly track. He reaches out, placing his palm in the center of Adam's chest, and _pushes._ It's light, but it's enough to force Adam down and deep into the worn cushions, eyes wide, lips parted in surprise.

Alex glares down at him, leaning just a bit closer. He speaks, and can't stop the words from coming out as a low, threatening growl.

_"I'm not done with you yet."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like a few comments to motivate me to write! Thanks to everyone who commented on this fic and let me know how they liked it! You're all so lovely, so I hope that an extra long chapter makes up for the inconsistent update schedule I've kept. Enjoy!

A lot of things have happened tonight that Desmond couldn't have predicted, but _this?_ This is the thing that floors him.

Surprised, Desmond finds himself manhandled like a child. Once that sinks in, adrenaline pumps through his veins, a rush of indignation as he gears for a fight.

What he absolutely _does not_ do is acknowledge the shocking, sudden, and fierce excitement singing in his blood, that makes his heart skip to feel that warm palm press firmly onto his chest, that comes with the sudden suspicion that this isn't someone he can overpower through brute force.

 _Don't even start,_ he scolds himself even as he defiantly meets Alex's cool gaze. He's never felt so intensely sick of himself and he hopes to _God_ he's not blushing.

Mouth suddenly dry, Desmond glares.

"You need to back off," he advises, voice slow and measured, loaded with deadly promise.

Alex only raises a brow, like he just can't _wait_ to see what he'll do, like it's a _joke._ Desmond tenses, muscles coiled to attack because he's starting to feel trapped, but then Alex tilts his head.

It's a slight movement, barely anything, but his gaze goes from disdainful and unimpressed to curious and calculating in an instant. Desmond freezes completely, hardly daring to breathe as Alex's eyes slowly roam over him, considering, as he takes a moment to really _look._

It's...the single most exposing act Desmond's ever experienced, and he's had to piss on camera. He's suddenly caught between twin desires to flee and to stay put, and that realization is almost as terrible as the deed itself. He's never had this urge to be complacent, to just...be bare, but this is also the first time anyone's ever tried anything like this.

Desmond opens his mouth, to say something— _anything_ —that will make this end. But his voice won't work. Alex, whether he knows it or not, is in complete control, and Desmond is helpless.

Something of this realization must show on his face because Alex's eyes narrow. He looks confused for a long moment, eyebrows furrowed as they draw together. He stares, like he's trying to solve Desmond.

Slowly, experimentally, he pushes a little harder on Desmond's chest.

A small gasp leaves him, a betrayal. His cheeks are warm, and the way Alex is watching him right now looks as if he's reacted just as planned.

Quietly, Alex says, "You like this."

No question, no uncertainty—just an observation. Just truth. There are no words for what that does to him, but one in particular comes close: _Fear._

It's not fear of the man, although it _really_ should factor in. Alex, strange and surprisingly abrasive as he may be, isn't what's shooting ice down Desmond's veins. He's checked, and Alex has been nothing but a steady, calming blue since the moment he sat at the bar.

No, it's the act itself. If he lets things progress any further, he has a rough idea of what's in store. And while hook-ups aren't necessarily strange to him, it's been...a long time. He hasn't been with someone like that since he'd been caught by Abstergo, and that had been a mindless quickie. He can't even put a face to them.

He's already toeing a dangerously thin, very vulnerable line, and if he lets himself fall, what would happen? Even at it's most basic, most animalistic, there's a certain level of trust in the act, and trust isn't something Desmond's exactly overflowing with these days. Not during a war when enemies wear the smiles of your friends.

And the _loneliness._ God _._ It's bad enough some nights when he can't sleep and he'll remember some of the good old days, just him and his small team, trading jokes around Chinese food in a dark, dusty bunker somewhere off the grid. He's better off alone, he _knows_ this, but...companionship is a hard habit to break, and Desmond sometimes thinks he needs it more than most.

So, say Desmond doesn't discourage what's already starting to unfold, if he ignores this suddenly fierce longing burning in his chest? Morning after's are a bitch and a half under normal circumstances, but after years without intimacy, almost as long without a friendly touch?

He might go mad, craving what he can no longer have.

These thoughts assault him in the space of a breath, and he's almost dizzy from the emotional whiplash. He can usually keep it together so well, but Alex's careful consideration, his cold, razor-sharp blue eyes? They're unraveling him faster than he wants to admit.

Mustering what strength he has left, Desmond tells him, "You don't know what you're talking about," except it comes out weak instead of confident and angry, and he's sure he looks scared. But still. He did it. He didn't say _no,_ but. He gave him a chance. An out.

Alex doesn't say anything, just frowns at him like Desmond's the most puzzling thing he's ever encountered. The feeling's starting to get real fucking mutual.

Without warning, Alex suddenly crowds him on the couch, bracing one knee just by Desmond's thigh as he leans in.

His face—his body—coming closer makes Desmond suck in his breath, trying desperately to get back even though there's nowhere to go. The hand on his chest feels like a brand.

A spark of excitement trips up Desmond's racing heart. He forces himself to speak.

"What are you doing?"

He thinks the sudden question will finally make Alex pause. Will make him stop and consider his surroundings, who he's with and what he's doing, and snap him out of this weird trance he's fallen into. He's clearly not a guy with a lot of significant relationships with other people, especially when it comes to social cues, but Desmond's willing to let bygones be bygones if it means all of this will _stop._

Of course, he's wrong.

Alex's hand leaves Desmond's chest and he breathes deeply for the first time in what feels like years. Sure, there's some disappointment, but you can't miss what you haven't had, right?

All those thoughts fly right out of his head, however, when Alex's hands close around his wrists. His heart leaps to his throat and he stares at Alex with wide eyes, caught off guard.

Alex is watching his own grip as he raises Desmond's wrists with that same achingly careful slowness. He doesn't stop until he has them pinned on the back of the couch, several inches apart from Desmond's face. He squeezes then, just a bit of pressure, just enough to cement that his hold is solid, and Desmond can't stop the full body shiver that overtakes him, eyes tightly closed.

Oh, God.

Alex's voice, quieter than he's heard it all night, makes his eyes flutter back open immediately.

"You sleep with guys?"

Desmond blinks, surprised.

"Sometimes," he answers without thinking. Alex nods, expression clearing of everything but determination.

"Okay," and then he closes what little distance remains between them, and kisses him.

Desmond's first instinct is to move—to punch him in the face, to drag him closer, _he's_ not even sure—but Alex's grip on his wrists prevents that and the reminder makes him shudder again. That's when he kisses back, lips parting as he lets Alex just... _take._

Quickly, he learns that Alex is thorough. He starts off with these slow, dragged out movements, just hard enough to feel the warm pressure of their lips pressed together. He angles his head just so and leans forward, making Desmond crane his neck up to keep them together. The urge to fight has fled him completely and at this point, he's just along for the ride.

Alex's tongue comes out to run lightly against Desmond's bottom lip and Desmond jerks, a stuttered, strained sound punched out of him. He can feel Alex smile.

Alex puts just enough space between them to be seen.

"I can't be sure about you," he admits lowly, eyes tracing a slow pattern over Desmond's face. He kisses him again, hard and searing this time, and Desmond can't hold back the moan that springs forth, longing and pained in turn. Alex breaks the contact, expression bordering on smug. "But like this, you're very honest."

Desmond's eyes go wide and suddenly, he has the ridiculous thought, _I hope the Templars don't find out._

It's his last coherent thought when Alex falls upon him with renewed vigor.

Alex plies him with kisses and caresses, coaxing sounds from Desmond that would embarrass him if he could focus on it.

"When's the last time you've done this?"

Desmond pants, shaking his head. "A long time. Years."

Alex arches a brow, freeing a hand to trace Desmond's stomach beneath his thin t-shirt. He swallows back another groan, both at the touch and the steel grip Alex's one hand still has on his wrists. How strong _is_ this guy?

Alex leans forward, mouth at Desmond's neck, lightly biting the skin and laving at it in turn.

"And why's that?"

"I— _hn_ —t-trust issues, mostly," he gasps.

"Hm." Desmond surrenders to the next kiss, savoring its heat and possessiveness even as he trembles, feeling himself slowly unravel.

His shaking isn't ignored. Alex leans back, piercing eyes roaming over him.

"Why are you so scared?"

Desmond, even if he wanted to, could never even _begin_ to approach describing the feelings going through him, the war inside between his fierce, aching longing for positive human contact and the terrifying, overwhelming fear that it will only result in pain. He shakes his head, trying to dispel the confusing emotions. He's already made his choice.

"I—I don't know."

Those cool eyes consider him a moment. "You think too much."

Alex releases his grip on Desmond's wrists and slides beneath him, seizing handfuls of his ass. Then, easy as can be, he lifts Desmond straight off the couch and walks to the bed, laying them both down before Desmond has a chance to get oriented. It's unreasonable hot, and Desmond's a bit more enthusiastic when he receives his next kiss.

"Adam..." Alex sighs, and Desmond jolts.

"That's not—" he starts before forcing himself to stop, wincing. Alex stops too, suspicion clear in his gaze.

"What?"

"That's...that's not my real name," Desmond confesses, watching Alex with a mix of wariness and apology. "It's Desmond."

Alex's eyes narrow. "Why the alias?"

His expression is unreadable, but his hands run up and down his legs where Desmond has them parted for him, warm and soothing on his thighs. Just thinking of that touch retreating makes Desmond breathless with dismay.

"Protection," he replies honestly.

"Whose?"

Flashes of the Animus, Vidic's face, and Clay dissolving into bits of code make him swallow, suddenly chilled. "Mine."

"Someone's after you?" Alex leans closer, searching Desmond's face for any clues. "Why? What do—?"

"No," Desmond interrupts. His gaze is pleading. "I know you want to know everything but you _can't._ Knowing too much will just put you in danger, too. You'll get hurt and I—I can't have any more blood on my hands. I won't."

Alex hardly looks pleased with that, but Desmond finds a bit of his stubbornness returning. _Tough._ Even if he's risking Alex walking out that door and not finishing what he started, Desmond won't back down. Not from this.

Frowning in thought, Alex closes the distance between them, lips pressing against his own.

Going nearly boneless with relief, Desmond wraps his arms around Alex's shoulders, feeling them tense for a moment before relaxing. Hands find Desmond's hips, grasping tight enough to hurt and holding him in place when Alex meets him there, rolling his hip against him.

Desmond breaks their kiss to turn to the side, gasping sharply.

"Like that?" Alex's voice is a bit rougher and it's driving Desmond crazy as surely as his touch.

Their hips grind together, Desmond's head spinning when he tries to meet him but finds Alex's grip unshakeable. He's forced to simply receive whatever Alex decides to give him, as hard and often as he wants. _Oh, God._ He's not going to last long at this rate.

"So, what?" Alex asks, murmuring hotly into the shell of Desmond's ear. "You in trouble with the mafia or something?"

Despite everything, Desmond laughs, a breathless chuckle. "God, no."

Alex nips the soft skin of his ear. "Yeah? Witness protection?"

"Not really."

He gives his neck more attention, showing his frustration with harsher bites.

 _"Ah_ —fuck!" Desmond tilts his head obligingly, moaning.

"Loan sharks?"

"No— _ugh!_ Listen!" Desmond grips Alex's shoulders and pushes, creating enough distance that their eyes meet and Alex can see his honesty instead of this bizarre, incredibly hot interrogation.

"I'm not secretly evil, okay? I'm not going to steal your wallet when you're not looking, I'm not a drug lord, and, in case you haven't noticed, I'm pretty much a big pushover." Alex huffs at that, not disagreeing when he's got Desmond between his legs.

"Look. I'm nothing special. Just a discarded tool that wants to be left alone." Desmond closes his eyes at that, left raw in the wake of that admission. Guilt eats at him, guilt—and desperation.

He's given so, so much. Is it wrong to want a little peace? A little time to carve out as just his own?

His thoughts go to the Animus, the feeling of his mind fracturing beneath the strain of a thousand years, a thousand faces, and his blood turns to ice.

It's selfish, incredibly so, but—he can't go back. He  _can't._

A touch on his cheek makes him open his eyes, blinking against the sudden burn in them. Alex's face no longer holds its wary suspicion, only empathy, and a little regret.

"Okay," he says simply, bringing their bodies together once more. "Okay."

This kiss is better than any before, soft and caressing, deep and exploring and completely relaxed, no more hidden agendas or ulterior motives between them. Just—them.

Desmond reaches down and tugs on the zipper of Alex's hoodie after a long moment. "Off," he commands. No more wallowing in the past.

Alex smirks, amused. "Yes, sir."

Alex leans back, shedding his outer coat and throwing back the hood of his second jacket. He has slicked-back, short brown hair, slightly mussed. His features are sharp and angular, a perfect match to his cool, cutting eyes.

A jolt of excitement makes Desmond's heart race; he can't wait to see the rest of him.

Desmond slides off his own shirt, unbuttoning his pants, but a grip on his wrists stops him. Alex meets his gaze calmly.

"Keeping these on?" His finger taps on Desmond's gloves.

"Oh." Desmond hesitates, self-conscious. The left hand was fine, but the right...He imagines Alex taking one look at it and throwing up, and blanches. He doesn't think he can handle that, not now.

Alex simply watches him, expression unreadable. "Let me help."

Paralyzed, Desmond doesn't move, grateful he starts with the left. Alex tosses the glove away, eyes going to the normal, unscathed skin, to Desmond's face. Reflexively, he tightens his right hand into a fist. Alex notices the move, of course he does—he coaxes Desmond's fingers to unfurl, then tugs off the glove.

It's ugly. The skin of his palm is almost completely black. Tendrils of it stretch over his fingers and creep to his wrist. Even now, he winces to see it, that fierce, shocking, _merciless_ burn such a visceral memory he can still smell his own cooking flesh.

He warily looks up at Alex to see him surprisingly watching _him_ in turn. When Alex has his attention, he takes Desmond's hand and raises it to place a kiss on his palm. Desmond feels the very air punched out of him.

"You think too much," Alex repeats, eyes a bit warmer. "Quit being so dramatic."

Desmond's laugh is shaky, relieved. "You're right; so sorry for putting you through that."

Alex drops his hand and peels off his shirt to Desmond's appreciative gaze. The man clearly works out, corded arms and muscled chest hidden beneath his baffling layers of clothes. He grips the front of Desmond's pants with a dark smirk on his face.

"Don't worry. I know how you can make it up to me."

The promise in his voice makes Desmond's mouth go dry, teasing smile all but forgotten.

"I live to serve," he manages. Alex's smirk grows even more sinister, no doubt due to the effect he's clearly having on Desmond.

"I'm counting on it."

Desmond's heart skips a beat. _Fuck. I'm screwed._

Alex's arm darts out, slipping beneath Desmond's head, and he jerks him up, slamming their mouths together. Desmond moans and Alex slips his tongue in as if set on mapping every inch of the space with thorough, long swipes.

Desmond's arms do their own searching, tracing Alex's abs, caressing his chest, stroking his back. He can feel scars here and there and wonders at each of them. But every second is suddenly urgent, too important, and would be wasted with words; they're a mystery left unsolved.

Alex groans into Desmond's mouth, approving of his touch, but doesn't warn him at all when he reaches between them and slides down Desmond's zipper. He pulls out Desmond's hardness and Desmond all but whines into him, his grip is so hot and tight.

"That's it," Alex mutters. "Let me see you."

The words send a scalding flash of heat straight down, twitching in Alex's hold. "Alex..." he sighs.

Tight, firm strokes build him up as Alex continues to kiss him, either on his lips or the hollow of his ear. After a minute of this, Desmond becomes aware of the steadily growing desire to touch in turn.

Desmond palms the front of Alex's jeans, delighting in the way he goes rigid. He squeezes and Alex inhales sharply.

Encouraged, Desmond unzips his jeans and has to lick his lips, seeing Alex straining for him. He slips his hands beneath the waistband of his underwear and strokes, enjoying the feel of him, but is suddenly stopped when Alex's hand grips him by the back of the neck, forcing his head up. Desmond stares up at him, surprised and extremely turned on by the smoldering heat in his gaze.

"I'm trying _very hard_ to control myself. And that is _not helping."_ Alex says this practically through gritted teeth. It's supposed to be a warning, but Desmond isn't the least bit threatened.

"Good," Desmond murmurs, reaching for him again. Alex's grip means he can't turn away and gets to drink in the way his expression goes strained and his eyes flutter shut.  
  
He also gets a front row seat to his eyes snapping back open, the fierceness in his gaze when he bats Desmond's hand away and takes them both, stroking with an obscene slide Desmond can't see but knows comes from both of their precum.

 _"A—ah,_ _shit,"_ he pants, staring up at Alex as his face contorts into an expression of pleasure. He doesn't look unaffected either, face flushed and the blue of his eyes swallowed by black.

"You look good like this," he observes lowly, voice the low rumble of a growing storm. He swipes a thumb across the head of Desmond's dick and he twitches, gasping. "You're so responsive."

The words of praise make him flush harder, shivering. _"Alex,"_ he begs, unsure if he's asking him to stop or continue.

 _"Desmond,"_ Alex mocks, smirking.

 _Oh, he is so dead,_ the remaining bit of Desmond's pride promises. The rest of him is too busy being teased within an inch of his life to care. No, the rest of him wants to be impossibly closer.

Desmond's hands slide up Alex's biceps, gripping tight to keep himself from simply sinking beneath the waves of pleasure.

 _"Alex,"_ he says again, desperately. Alex loosens his hold slightly, curious, and Desmond doesn't waste a second kissing him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders.

After a moment of startlement, Alex meets him in kind, resuming his stroking and locking an arm around him in a steel hold, keeping them flush.

"Shh," Alex soothes. "I've got you."

He stretches over him, crushing him to the bed, nestled between Desmond legs. He stops stroking in favor of taking Desmond's wrists against, holding them up and away as he grinds their hips together, languid, smooth thrusts that have him seeing stars.

"Oh..." Heat pools urgently below his stomach and Desmond—he's not going to last. It's been too long. "I—I'm—"

"That good, huh?" The slight waver betrays him, however, and when Desmond manages to look at him, Alex's cool demeanor is a thing of the past; he looks _ravenous._

Desmond nods rapidly, mind lost and clinging to the word he knows. "Yes—yes—so good," he sighs, breath hitching. "You feel—so good, Alex, _hn!"_

Desmond tries to kiss him again, but Alex sudden stops, ripping himself away from the contact by raising up on his arms and stilling his hips.

 _"No_ —what?" Desmond was so close, he almost wants to cry. But he takes in how Alex is trembling, head bowed, and gets worried. "Alex...?"

Alex doesn't say a word, lowering himself so that they're foreheads touch, his eyes screwed shut. This close, Desmond realizes how hard he's shaking, as if he'll vibrate apart into little pieces. He's panting harshly, chest heaving in deep, gulping gasps of air.

"Too much," he says between heaving breaths. "I've got—to stay in control." He growls, honest-to-God _growls,_ and shakes his head back and forth, like a dog. "Stop. _Stop,"_ he hisses.

Desmond stills, his passion cooling as he watches Alex grapple with _whatever_ internal issue he's having. Slowly, he runs his hands up those corded arms, feeling how the veins strain beneath Alex's skin, like they'll burst out at any second.

He doesn't understand, but Alex is helping him. He can return the favor.

"It's okay," Desmond whispers, continuing his soothing caress. "Shh. All right, you're okay."

Gradually, Alex stills, eyes fluttering open. Desmond's heart leaps to his throat at the sight. He's never seen a look more intense, and for a brief, crazy moment, he would swear Alex's eyes flashed _red._

Desmond blinks, and the moment is gone. The following kiss is more than enough to distract him, and by the time Alex pulls away, he doesn't even remember it.

Desmond searches his face. "You good?"

Alex sighs, warm breath ghosting over his skin. "I'm good."

Still worried, Desmond frowns. "We can stop, you know."

Alex's eyes flash to his, affronted. "We are _not_ stopping." Before Desmond can protest, he raises up enough to tug off Desmond's pants and underwear in one urgent move, all but radiating determination.

"I was just— _ah!"_ Desmond's cut off by Alex quickly scooting back and tracing Desmond's length with his tongue. "Yeah, okay, not stopping."

Any desire he'd lost during that little intermission quickly surges back with a vengeance, leaving him moaning and arching beneath Alex's skilled hands.

"Look ready to me," Alex says, and at first the words don't make sense. But then he feels a blunt finger probing his entrance and he freezes. Alex's eyes dart up to his instantly. "Not okay?"

"N-no! I was just surprised." Alex eyes him doubtfully.

"Really?"

Desmond huffs. Of all the times to worry about moving too fast...

He reaches out, fingers light as they trace Alex's jaw. He pushes every ounce of confidence he can manage into his eyes.

"I'm fine," he promises. He tugs Alex down, and they share a kiss. When they break apart, Desmond whispers, "Don't stop."

And, mercifully, Alex doesn't.

Sighing in relief, in bliss, Desmond knows this is a mistake. When morning comes, so too will the regret, the sadness, the loneliness. Companionship isn't in the cards for him, not when he has to keep moving. The memory of this night will torment him, he's sure. But he'll also be grateful.

For now, he's not alone, he's wanted, and he's being cared for. He can't ask for more.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick update since the last chapter is more of an epilogue than a full installment. Enjoy!

Alex wakes up, and the feeling is such a novelty it disorients him for a long moment.

After all, he's a _virus._ He's never really _slept_ before, not truly. But he's also never exerted himself in quite this way, and he's _never_ repressed himself once he's had the urge to consume. Between the two, it's no wonder he's tired.

Eyes still screwed shut, he racks his brain, absently noting his nakedness, the thin sheet covering his waist.

He remembers...the bar, the anger, and—

_Desmond._

Alex's eyes shoot open, but he knows already that Desmond is gone. The bed is empty, devoid of his warmth, and the few personal belongings he'd noted last night are missing.

_Of course._ The thought is bitter, but unsurprised. Desmond had all but warned him, after all. He'd never planned to stick around.

The ache of sadness is ruthlessly ignored in favor of pragmatism. Last night had escalated further than he'd ever intended, anyway. The cold light of morning only highlights that fact, how unlike himself he'd been to be so taken in with a human.

But he'd never felt such _passion_ before, thus knew no way to control it. Something about Desmond had called out to him, made him put aside his cynicism and anger, made him want to reach out, to connect in a way far deeper and more intimate than his typical methods. He saw the pain there, nursed and raw within Desmond, and he'd simply...wanted to help.

Alex roughly rubs a weary hand over his face, sickened with himself. How has he still not learned?

He dresses in silence, no longer seeing a need to stay in a place littered with memories he can't handle right now. It's only when he's slid open the window and glances back one last time that he notices the note.

It's just a scrap of paper, hastily ripped from a book and stuck to the door by a nail. Alex tugs it away with a twitch of his hand, curious despite himself.

_I know it's a dick move to cut and run, but it's better this way. I'm glad I met you, Alex. Our time together was special to me. Thank you. And don't lose faith._

_-Desmond_

And just like that, all thoughts and resolutions of washing his hands of last night are washed away in the form of this simple, heartfelt note. He can practically _see_ Desmond's little smile, that same one from before that's equal parts understanding and sadness that makes Alex want to reach out and shake him, make him sit and be still and be _happy._ It's infuriating, to think of Desmond leaving in the small hours of the morning to keep _him_ safe, to spare _his_ feelings.

The note crumples in Alex's fist. He looks around blindly, lost in a maelstrom of emotions. It's a singularly helpless feeling, and he loathes it.

Alex...he's just going to have to accept that last night wasn't a fluke, that Desmond's crawled underneath his skin and plans to stay. There's just something about him that won't let him go.

And Desmond? _He'll_ have to accept that Alex has his scent now. And nothing, not man nor beast nor God, will stop Alex once he's determined to find someone who means to hide.

Desmond won't be alone any longer. Whether he likes it or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so, SO much for reading/commenting/leaving kudos! It really reawakened my Desmond love and I have a few projects in the works for him. Hopefully, you'll be seeing one soon! 
> 
> But in any case, this is the end. I've never actually written ProtoCreed before this, so I hope it was mildly tolerable, haha. Will there be a sequel in the future? I'm definitely considering it, but I guess the interest needs to be there. Thanks again for reading! You guys are the best~


End file.
